A Poetic Anthology
by SLNorioke
Summary: Just some of my brother's and my best poems we wouldn't share our worst publicly! . Don't like, don't read, don't waste our inbox space with flames.
1. Introduction

_**HELLO!!!**_

Before we get started with the poetry, which Stephen and I have been typing up all day (our fingers _really_ hurt), I would like to say a few things…

1) Some of these poems are really stupid, and some of them are really good. So, if you run into a block of 3-4 poems you don't like, don't be fazed, please. You may just have bad luck! Anyway, I'll be posting the best of Stephen's and my poetry (weird as it may seem for a 16 year old _boy_ to like to write and share poetry).

2) Stephen and I are twins, and so obviously we have a similar writing style, which may not be as different as you think between a girl and boy, even in twins. More of for us, we'd like to conduct an experiment, and see if you can guess which person wrote which poem (though I must warn you, some of Stephen's poems are really girly).

3) Last thing: since this entire 'story' is going to be poems, you can expect quick updates, maybe one a day or so, but we can go quicker if you want. I just think the 'daily poem' idea is pretty cool, but Stephen _insists_ that we do something different. He fails to realize _I'm_ the one with the profile.

…Also, not all of these are poems, and not all of these are individual poems. There are some short stories, as well as poem series. Expect both, but I'll say what it is.

At the top of each 'chapter', I'll put the name of the article, as well as the type of writing it is. I hope that satisfies your desire for organization.

_**All Out!**_____

_**Stella (and Stephen) Norioke**_


	2. Entry 1: The Last Survivor

**_The Last Survivor  
A War Short-Story/Journal Entry _**

I never thought it could end this way—the bombs literally bursting in air, though much closer to the ground than any of us would like. The gunshots ring through the dusty, dry air—I don't think I've had water in days. Up here, in the yellow-orange mountains overlooking the sieged city, we thought we'd be safe, at least.

The others left long ago, leaving me and my squad to protect the diseased and dying refugees, but there's nothing to truly protect. Their numbers are dropping like flies: I find nothing of worth in their existence. That's why, just before the city gates were broken, I huddled the 3 survivors, a woman and two children, in the deepest basement in the city, telling them they'd be safe there until my squad and I arrived with bigger forces.

There were no forces. There was no hope, just 3 less people to haul up to safety. Cruel, yes, but this is war. Pure, cold, hard war. You can't waste your breath trying to save the damned.

Wait—can you hear that?

Of course you can't, but I hear screaming in the bullets' pause. The woman. The children are probably dead, poor souls. But there are just 2—no, make that 3 (the screaming just stopped)—more casualties of war. What's 3 more to a number already in the millions?

Oh no: I see a group of hostiles splitting from the main force—they're coming up! What do I do? My ammo's gone, my fingers ache, my throat is throbbing, even in the cool shade of my hiding place.

I can hear rustling—probably Clyde getting antsy. Poor kid—he's only seventeen—snuck into the army. He doesn't talk much, but I think he was abused. Twitches every time we talk to him, can't stay still... I just heard the gunshots. The rustling has stopped.

Those bloody bastards... I want nothing more than to scream at them. They didn't have to take a child's life.

Shit.

I think they heard my pencil—they just went silent. You know, I never really thought is would end with me, a coward guilty of condemning 3 innocent lives to painful death at the hands of fanatics, huddling in a dark crevice in the middle of the Middle East...

2 more shots. They've taken out Jack and Holly... and I'm the only one that's left. Out of 600 troops and 10,000 civilians in the city to begin with... and I'm the last survivor...

Funny... I never thought it would end like this.

—The last survivor

P.S. See you in Hell, Ares.

**_AN: I think this is actually one of the saddest things we've ever written. But don't worry—these poems aren't all going to be about war and graphic death and the demise of the human psyche. They get happier—heck, Stephen even wants me to post his one about a _FLOWER_!!!_**


	3. Entry 2: As Blossoms Go By

**_As Blossoms Go By  
A Repetition Poem_**

As blossoms go by,

I hurry past,

A blur to spectators.

As blossoms go by,

Raindrops fall in the lake,

Patter against my umbrella,

Thump on the pavement.

As blossoms go by,

So do children,

Crying and laughing

At the sudden change of weather.

As blossoms go by,

I slow to a stop

Under a tree

And lower my umbrella.

As blossoms go by,

Tears creep like spiders

Down my cheeks,

Salty in my mouth.

As blossoms go by,

Twirling like ballerinas,

Pastel and serene,

Nobody's waiting for me…

Not even the blossoms going by.

**_AN: Okay, I'm not going to lie to you. I wrote this poem after my first boyfriend broke with me, because apparently 'I'm too much of a bookworm and I more attention to my brother than my boyfriend'. Well, duh. I'm an Honor student with a twin—_****_What do you expect me to do?_**

**Okay, that was Stella's sappiness part. Now this is Stephen's. Luny was pretty depressed with this one, but I'm honestly surprised she wrote it about blossoms and not spider webs.**


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